


howlin' for you

by tarcanza



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Can I make it any more obvious?, Enemies to Lovers, Jonny is a Vampire, M/M, Patrick is a Werewolf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:15:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27341086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarcanza/pseuds/tarcanza
Summary: “A werewolf ordering a Howling Moonshine. How original,” a familiar, dry voice drawls from his left. Kaner turns.Oh great.“Like you’re one to talk,” he says, rolling his eyes, angling his chin towards Toews’ Bloody Mary. No way in hell that’s tomato juice. “What’s in that, A positive?”Toews smirks, letting his fangs peek out of his mouth before picking up the glass to take a demure sip. “O negative,” he says, running his tongue over the sharp edges of his teeth.
Relationships: Patrick Kane/Jonathan Toews
Comments: 14
Kudos: 68





	howlin' for you

**Author's Note:**

> Uhhhh so the idea for this fic hit me at 5PM on October 31st. At the time, I deluded myself into thinking I could bang it out in a few hours, intending for it to be a nice lil Halloween one-shot. News flash: that is not what happened. It, unfortunately (or fortunately, depending on how you look at it) grew legs. Special thanks for thathockey and Dauhu for hyping me up. Love you guys!

“I’ll take a Howling Moonshine, please,” Kaner says, elbowing his way through a gaggle of Tri Delt banshees to swing himself down onto the last open bar stool. He drums his fingers on the liquor-sticky counter, ignoring the dirty looks they shoot him—Georgie’s is always packed to the brim on Saturday nights, so if you want to get a drink any time this century, you have to be willing to ruffle a few feathers or scratch a few scales. 

“A werewolf ordering a Howling Moonshine. How original,” a familiar, dry voice drawls from his left. Kaner turns. _Oh great._

“Like you’re one to talk,” he says, rolling his eyes, angling his chin towards Toews’ Bloody Mary. No way in hell that’s tomato juice. “What’s in that, A positive?”

Toews smirks, letting his fangs peek out of his mouth before picking up the glass to take a demure sip. “O negative,” he says, running his tongue over the sharp edges of his teeth. He looks perfect as usual—back ramrod straight, not a hair out of place. 

He’s wearing a fucking turtleneck, for crying out loud. It should make him look like some kind of try-hard hipster slam poet—and it kind of does, but it also makes him look irritatingly hot, sleeves pushed up to reveal his toned forearms, tendons flexing minutely as he swirls his drink. 

A quick conference with the dingy bathroom mirror a few minutes ago had confirmed Kaner’s suspicions about his own state—he’s a disaster, sweat plastering his messy curls to his forehead, shirt stained bright green from the stupid drink Sharpy had spilled on him earlier in the night. He sees Toews eye the stain, smirk pulling up higher. _Fucking vampires,_ Kaner thinks, feeling a flush rise to his cheeks despite himself. 

“One Howling Moonshine,” the bartender says, sliding over the dark blue drink, giving a lazy flick of the wrist towards it when it’s in front of Kaner. A little moon appears above the drink, and an even smaller apparition of a wolf howls beneath it. Toews doesn’t say a word, just raises a brow and takes another sip of his drink. Kaner scowls. Fuck him, it was _cool_ , okay? He bets if there was a drink with a little apparition of a vampire sucking someone’s blood, Toews would be all over that shit. 

But then again, the VRA (Vampire’s Rights Association) had been campaigning pretty hard over the last few years to abolish “harmful and antiquated portrayals” of vampires in modern society, so maybe not. (The University of Chicago held a week long sensitivity and bias training workshop for all incoming freshman, sending them home with a million and one different brochures with titles like “Being Fair to the Fair Folk: How to Get Along With Your Fairy Roommate” and “Interspecies Conflict Resolution: An Illustrated Guide!”)

Kaner takes a swig of his drink, smiling viciously when Toews wrinkles his nose at the obnoxious belch he lets out. “What are you doing here anyway?” Kaner finds himself asking, setting down his drink, fingers tracing the rim of his glass as he casts Toews a curious glance. “This isn’t exactly your scene.” 

He should probably leave—grab his drink and find Sharpy and Abby like he planned. Toews had already harshed his glow enough. But something about seeing prim and proper Jonathan Toews sitting in the middle of Kaner’s favorite grody, overcrowded bar, legs crossed elegantly and long fingers wrapped around his glass, piques Kaner’s interest. 

“Observation,” Toews says simply, not bothering to even look in his direction. 

“Observation,” Kaner echoes flatly, annoyance tempting him to make a joke about Toews staking out the bar to find a target to suck their blood. He tamps down on the urge, mostly because he hears something that sounds suspiciously similar to Jackie’s voice in his head, sternly telling him ‘humor based on species stereotypes is harmful and lazy, loser.’ “Could you be more specific?” he says with exaggerated patience. 

“Yes,” Toews says. Kaner waits, but he doesn’t add anything else. Kaner rolls his eyes. Typical Toews, always so fucking difficult. 

“Alright, well, good talk, Toews—have a nice night of brooding, or whatever the fuck you’re doing,” Kaner says brightly, preparing to get up. 

“It’s for class,” Toews says right as Kaner stands. 

Kaner raises a brow. “You have a class that assigned you to get hammered at a bar?”

“COMM 561: Interspecies Relations in the Modern Social Sphere,” Toews says like he’s talking to a small child, somehow managing to look down his nose at Kaner even though he’s the one who’s sitting down. “Ergo, observation,” he concludes, like that’s supposed to be a thorough explanation, which it absolutely isn’t. Toews has a notebook in front of him, Kaner notices, pages filled with neat, bullet-pointed writing. 

Kaner snorts. “Or, you know, you could hang like a normal dude instead of sitting there taking creepy ass notes like we’re some kind of science experiment. You’d get the same information, and you might actually have fun for once in your life.” _Or lives_ , Kaner adds mentally, because vampires’ personalities didn't really change that much from their human personality, and from what Kaner can make of Jonathan Toews, he doubts the guy was getting down and dirty or letting loose during his mortal days, either. 

Maybe it’s the alcohol talking, but Kaner swears Jonny goes stiff in his seat, even past the usual odd stillness that vampires seem to embody. The silence drags on for a few moments too long, and then Toews is dragging his index finger down the page in front of him. 

“Ah,” Toews announces, “Here it is. Werewolf dancing with kitsune—she looks like she wants to die. Interspecies repulsion? Or maybe it’s just because the werewolf is a hilariously tragic dancer.” He looks at Kaner steadily, mean little smile playing at his lips. 

Kaner flushes, remembering the way he was flailing around on the dance floor an hour ago and how the kitsune had politely removed herself from his vicinity. To be fair, the alcohol was _really_ pumping through his veins. He’s a werewolf, not an elf—he isn’t blessed with ethereal fucking grace, he was just having a good time. 

“Fuck you, you do not have that written down,” Kaner snaps, stopping himself from flicking Toews on the shoulder. Vampires are really weird about physical touch, unlike werewolves, who will cuddle anything that breathes. Toews just shrugs elegantly, taking another small sip from his drink. 

Kaner rolls his eyes. "Whatever, man." He can feel the beginnings of a headache pressing at his temples—it's probably from the alcohol hitting his bloodstream, but there's a very real possibility his brain is staging a mutiny against his body for subjecting it to Toews on a Saturday night when he’s supposed to be having _fun._ But at the same time, there’s a part of him that wants to stay rooted in place and push and prod at Toews until he breaks that unbearably cool facade—but that’s not a new feeling. 

Kaner sighs and brings his fingers, a little chilly and damp from clutching at his drink, to massage at his forehead. “Well, I’m out,” he says finally, surprised to hear how steady his voice comes out. The world’s already going hazy at the edges, a pleasant heaviness settling into his limbs that tells him _oh yeah, I’m in for a good time._

He’s distantly proud of himself for letting go, for not giving into the flame of annoyance that sparks in him every time he interacts with Toews. He’s mature and shit, after all. But then Toews chooses not to respond, going back to scribbling in his douchey, black leather notebook. Seriously, what a fucking cliche. 

The flame grows. And then Kaner can’t help himself—he leans in and claps Toews hard on the back. “See you in class, bud,” he says obnoxiously, reveling in the way Toews’ muscles tense and bunch under his palm as he sways forward from the force. Toews loses his grip on his pen, and Kaner eyes the resulting wonky line that skitters across Toews’ page with satisfaction. 

Kaner waits in anticipation for Toews to turn his dark eyes onto his, wants to see them smolder in rage, wants to see the tight clench of his jaw. But Toews just swings back into place, deftly removing Kaner’s hand from his back like it’s nothing more than a stray piece of lint. Kaner winces at the cold shock of Toews’ skin. “See you in class,” Toews tosses out like an afterthought.

He still doesn’t even _look_ at Kaner, delicate nose pointed down towards his notebook, continuing to write around the wobbly line like it didn’t phase him in the slightest, when Kaner _knows_ it must be eating him up inside, having that ugly streak of uneven black marring his perfect notes. There’s another smirk curling up at the corners of his stupid, perfect mouth, and Kaner doesn’t know if he wants to kiss him, or punch him, or scream in frustration. 

Kaner settles for biting down on his tongue and spinning on his heel. He swears he hears a quiet exhale of laughter as he slips back into the dense throng of bodies clamoring around the bar. Kaner looks back for a moment once he makes it through to the clearing of tables. 

He gets a partially obfuscated glimpse of the back of Toews’ head through the crowd. His dark hairline is neat and even, the back of his neck pale and smooth, not even a hint of a sheen of sweat or heated flush to be seen. Then someone shifts and he’s covered again. Kaner tears his eyes away. 

“Kaner!”

Kaner looks up. Sharpy’s beaming face swims into view, Abby in tow. “Where the fuck is your drink, loser?” he says, nudging Kaner’s shoulder with his. Kaner blinks down at his hand, which unconsciously clenches around the shape of a glass that’s no longer in his hands. 

“Must’ve left it at the bar,” he realizes, Sharpy’s resulting cackle loud in his ear. 

“Maybe that’s for the best, Peekaboo,” he says, giving Kaner’s curls a quick tousle. “You’re officially out of it, my friend.”

“M’not,” Kaner protests, feeling his features twist into a pout. Great, now he was drinkless, his head hurts, and he’s annoyed. 

Fucking Toews. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on [Tumblr ](https://tarcanza.tumblr.com/) for updates and also on [Twitter ](https://twitter.com/tarcanza). Come say hi!


End file.
